


But thy silk twist let down

by middlemarch



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: American Civil War, Angst, F/M, Love Letters, Reunions, Romance, Surprises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 12:31:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9896579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: He was beginning to despair.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ultrahotpink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultrahotpink/gifts).



He was exhausted and when he woke each day, he felt every one of his forty-four years. The winter seemed interminable though it was only January and the hospital was full of groaning, miserable soldiers trying to recover from the butchery of Fredericksburg. They had succeeded in ousting McBurney a few months ago, but the Army had decided to promote Jed to the Chief Medical Officer position rather than reassign another surgeon with more battlefield experience; there was slightly less volatile acrimony now but the removal of their common enemy had returned Dr. Hale and Nurse Hastings to an uneasy opposition, though the subject for their skirmishes altered with the weather and Nan Hastings’s supply of gin. Jed wanted coffee, he wanted the late warmth of a Maryland autumn that lingered, he wanted, oh! how he wanted Mary.

It had become apparent how much Mary had done at Mansion House once she was gone. Miss Dix had not sent them a replacement and Jed was too mired in paperwork and the surfeit of men needing urgent and sometimes delicate procedures, far beyond Hale’s ability, to write to the nursing superintendent in Washington City. He admitted to himself he did not want to risk Miss Dix definitively declaring that Mary would not return to her post nor did he wish to suggest she send another woman, the harridan they had once expected. They muddled on but Anne’s expertise and Emma’s earnest diligence could not compensate for the loss of Mary’s drive for continual improvement, her insight into the men, her intelligence and her keen, kind eye that observed so astutely all that transpired within the hospital and even without. McBurney had distracted them with his elaborate ordinances and purposeless edicts but without him, the hospital missed Mary’s intrepid spirit, her eye, her hands and her heart.

And Jed knew he missed her most of all. He hadn’t noticed when she was ill, too absorbed in caring for her, worrying over her, feuding with McBurney over whether she might remain, but after she was gone, it became clear how thoroughly she’d looked after him, some interventions so small he would not have thought he’d feel their absence but he did and powerfully. There had been numberless gestures—the fresh cup of chicory with the last of the sugar, a frayed silk ribbon to mark his page, his boots polished, his post beside his plate. She had learned how he liked the scalpels laid out and the tenacula, just how to drape the linen before he cut, the moment to drip the ether on the cone so the boy slept when Jed was ready to open. She’d known when to rest her hand on his shoulder when he sat vigil beside a corporal, when she might smile encouragement and when her recognition of his misery. She’d known when the smile must stay only within her gaze and round the vowels when she spoke. Without her, there was no one at Mansion House to wonder whether he might succumb to the needle’s perpetual attempts at seduction, whether he was eating enough, sleeping enough, whether his beard needed trimming and his button-holes mending.

He had not appreciated how well loved he had been, how cherished by her in all the ways she had been allowed and even some that were proscribed but irresistible, until she had left, her face too pale, her hair arranged simply in a knot at the base of her neck, her cornflower traveling coat reflecting blue shadows onto her cheeks. She had left him a volume of Herbert, whom he had never read before, but had found gave him such a compelling sense of Mary at her most vulnerable and unconcealed that he took to carrying it in his coat pocket and tracing the lines as he read them before sleeping. There was no wax-sealed letter overflowing with adoration accompanying the gift, but an inscription “J—I fly to thee, and fully understand. M,” words that could not be lost or misplaced and a telegram that arrived in three days’ time with her sister’s Exeter Street address in Boston and the brief message that she had arrived. That had been months ago and since then, there had been a steady stream of correspondence between them; she wrote regularly and he did not, but she did not complain. Her missives seemed effortless, as if she had transcribed herself speaking to him but without the interruptions Mansion House had always visited upon them, without the same degree of circumspect self-censorship. She charmed him as much as she challenged and he understood she was doing her best to give him what he required, even at such distance and when she herself had much need of nurturing.

He strove to write her the letters she deserved but felt he was a failure, though she never reproached him. He could not simply fill a page with love-making, especially not the unadorned exclamations his heart made _I love you I want you Come back to me_ , and he struggled to describe the events and difficulties of Mansion House succinctly and articulately enough to bring her any enjoyment. The foolscap was blotted, creased, lines struck through and he hadn’t the energy nor the inclination to re-write the letter once it was finally complete, his name scrawled at the bottom. What he wrote was disjointed, uneasy, ill-conceived; he told her what was important, that his marriage was ended, that Samuel was making progress and innovations at a rapid pace, that the little calico she was so fond of had come back and spent her nights before the hearth, lit or not, but without either elegance or eloquence, his usual ability sadly diminished by yearning, exhaustion, fear and doubt. It was a poor courtship and he opened each letter from her convinced she would reject him, his eyes searching for her farewell _Ever yours_ the reassurance he needed to breathe and read what she had written, nearly always headed _Dearest Friend_ since her fever had passed, when she had written his name only, when it had been endearment absolute.

He kept her letters in his desk, except for one short note she had written soon after she had arrived in Boston that read _I love you so very much, Jedediah, that even to wait for you seems the mildest burden, such is the strength of my affection and my faith_ ; that one he kept in his vest pocket, to feel the paper against his breast, her words the caress he must be satisfied with. If anyone noticed how often his hand came to rest there, they were wise enough not to remark upon it; he couldn’t deny that Mary’s absence had made him far more irritable and the balm of McBurney’s departure could not entirely offset the crushing workload that neither Hale nor Samuel Diggs could help him diminish. He had such few consolations these days—that the chicory might be hot if still not palatable, that Miss Gibson may have wrested control of the pantry from the Steward and prepared some meal that reminded him of the extravagant past, made him hope for a future where it was Mary he might praise for the pastry’s lightness, chess with Hopkins to the music of Hastings’ silence, and reading the newest letter that arrived from the north. But there had not been a letter for two weeks now and he was miserable and desperate, bereft and unable to imagine what he could do short of abandoning his post and racing to Boston.

He retreated to the parlor most afternoons, once he’d finished his rounds, sparing himself and his staff his foul mood. There was always work waiting for him in his office but he saved it until after the meager dinner, to fill the hours before he could allow himself to sleep, to dream of her. He felt he’d lived a lifetime with her in that bed, phantasies of the most homely nature—Mary fussing with the peonies in her garden, wiping up spilled ink and muttering the dearest imprecations while she did, pressing the water from her freshly washed hair with a towel, brushing his best coat with prettily pursed lips, complaining they would be late for church again, _again Jedediah_. The marriage he wanted was even harder to wake from than the carnal reveries of her full breasts against his bare back, the laces of her stays being unwoven by his own hands, the taste of her delight on his lips. He had found after only a few nights that if he tried to sleep too early, he would fill the night with dreams and wake before the dawn, heart-broken, his cock hard and his hands gripping the sheets, the edge of the pillow. There was no relief. His work kept her from him but it saved his sanity between-times. Sometimes he wished a man would hemorrhage to fill the hours and knew Mary would shake her head at him to hear it. He felt he would revel in her disappointment if only she was sitting beside him when she scolded, he would have handed her ferrule himself and gloried to see her raise it before setting it aside with an bemused sigh.

He was at the window, looking out into the winter garden, all stalks and furled leaf, when he heard the knock at the door. He closed his eyes and wished he did not have to answer. He was the chief, even if he didn’t want to be and Byron Hale drooled for it, so there was no choice to be made.

“Come in,” he called, steeling himself for the request, the demand, the newest contretemps or catastrophe.

“Dr. Foster,” Samuel Diggs said from the doorway. This was the best he could hope for, that Samuel would already have the problem and solution neatly matched, half-way done at least and possibly requiring nothing more than a nod.

“Yes, Mr. Diggs?”

“I hate to interrupt, but there’s family waiting for you in your study. Been waiting a while now, but you were occupied and well, it’s been a long time. Will you come or shall I say it’ll just be a few more minutes?” Samuel explained. He sounded less tired than usual and Jed wondered whether there’d been something from Aurelia, though the man never spoke of her. Or perhaps there’d been word from Rush about the logistics of an admission. It would have been pleasant to be able to ask, but he couldn’t, not when some soldier’s relatives, likely a fatigued, anxious mother and wife, were eager for him to tell them a diagnosis, prognosis, anything to quell their fears. He was tired too and the prospect of being unable to leave his own office to end the interview decided him.

“Bring them here. And let’s keep it brief, I’ve run dry of the milk of human-kindness,” he declared. He saw Samuel open his mouth to disagree and added, “That’s an order, from your CMO. That’s all I’m going to say.”

Samuel nodded quickly and stepped out. He was the single most valuable member of Mansion House and Jed knew he had insulted him just now; he would have to apologize as soon as he was able, perhaps once this unexpected meeting was over. He wanted to, at least he could console himself with that, knowing he hadn’t needed someone else to show him what his words meant, what he owed his fellows, his betters. Jed turned back to the window and saw the day was retreating. In an hour, he’d have to light the lamp or wallow in the darkness this room was partial to. Once, he would have thought it maudlin to sit in the dark, trying to remember his dreams or dream his memories, but he’d learned it wasn’t sentimental but necessary. 

Samuel was prompt and reliable. Jed usually liked that about the man, but tonight it was hard to see the merits. Perhaps he could achieve some balance of brusque and reassuring that would satisfy the family quickly and let him them leave him alone after a quarter-hour’s conversation. There was another knock on the door and the sound of it opening. He didn’t turn, not right away; it wouldn’t make much difference in how they thought of him.

“My apologies, madam,” he began, stopping when the stranger spoke.

“Samuel tells me you have been in a terrible temper these past few weeks. I do hope you haven’t hurt his feelings, Jedediah,” Mary said, as if she had never left, as if it had not been months that she was away but only an hour’s errand. He turned quickly to face her.

She was beautiful, lovelier than he had recalled, radiant; she was slender but not drawn from her illness, her eyes bright and her cheeks rosy, not from fever or cold, but health and a merriment that had gone well before she’d left Alexandria. She was finely dressed yet not in the blue travelling costume she’d worn when she first arrived at Mansion House. Her dress was a rich brown silk, sprigged with some lighter color, and the bonnet which was still tied under her chin had velvet pansies around the crown. Here was the Baroness von Olnhausen, here was Mary returned to him, her voice, her quick wit, her thoughtfulness and enchanting confidence. He looked at her and couldn’t imagine doing anything else. She smiled at him, with a warmth and surety she’d never had with him when they worked side by side; their correspondence had given her that at least, the blank paper, the rooms blank without her, pulling from him all everything he had struggled to say when she had stood across from him or paused to regard him from the staircase, when she had lifted her head from the book she worked in, diligent and dear.

“I had thought I shouldn’t get a word in edgewise when we met again, but I see I was mistaken. Jedediah, are you well?” she said, the amusement fading as she spoke, leaving only her affectionate concern and uncertainty. He could do nothing to stop his response; the tears filled his eyes and he wept. 

“Oh!” Mary cried softly and shifted as if she would run to him, pausing when he spoke.

“No, don’t. It’s, I beg your pardon, there was no letter, for weeks no letter, I was afraid,” he explained, his voice low, half-choked with the tears he tried to suppress, that stung and spilled despite him.

“The journey, I thought you would worry less if you didn’t know. I’m sorry, so sorry, Jedediah,” she said. 

“Don’t be sorry, Mary, I should be sorry, I am, for giving you such a poor welcome. You look—you look like a bride,” he said, knowing it was true as he said it, taking in how finely dressed she was, the train at her hem of her elegantly full skirt, the hint of her elaborate coiffure the bonnet could not conceal; she reminded him of the night of the Green’s ball but this dress suited her better, the warmth of the chestnut silk setting off her skin, her dark eyes.

“Your bride?” she asked and then he moved to her, as quickly as he would have imagined doing except that he hadn’t. And then she was in his arms and her face was turned up to his.

“Yes,” he said and kissed her, very gently, as if he uttered his final vow to her and held his wife. He pulled back slightly to see her face, her eyes glowing, her mouth curved in a smile he knew was his. She reached up and wiped the tears from his cheeks with one deliberate finger. That touch, more than the reverent kiss, shifted something within him, between them, and he was aware of the most passionate desire, all his earlier fatigue overwhelmed, the blood in his veins, swirling through the chambers of his heart, alight.

“Yes?” he asked, his voice lower, waiting for her permission with such poor grace he saw the laughter in her gaze and warmth, an entrancing heat that would not burn but only sustain and transfigure.

“Yes,” she said, his mouth swallowing the last of the small word, tasting it. She parted her lips for him, her arms around his neck, arching up into his touch. They had never embraced like this before, with everything between them defined and acceptable, and he felt the difference in her compared to his memory; she was not tentative and he was not stunned, they each sought the other intently, their desire matched and unshadowed. He stroked her tongue with his and her hands tightened in the untrimmed curls at the nape of his neck. She was confident and curious, biting him lightly, then tracing the fullness of his lower lip, seeming even more eager for his ardent response than her own pleasure or, he dimly perceived, they were one. He wanted to keep kissing her sweet mouth and to kiss her everywhere else; he pulled at the silk ribbons tied beneath her chin free from their bow and slid the pretty bonnet from her head, letting it fall to the ground. He did not hear what sound it made, taken with the scent of her bare neck, her carotid rapid against his lips, his ears filled with the music of her breath as it became the softest, most erotic moan. He suddenly knew she would agree to anything and the shock of it made him hesitate as he felt his cock harden, the fullness of her breast in his hand.

“Mary, we must lock the door,” he managed, unable to say more, not _dearest_ or _my sweet love_ , unable to feel more than the consuming tender lust for the woman he held and the distracting fear of an intrusion.

“I already did, when I came in,” she murmured. He would have grinned at her, artless and unashamed, proud even that he would know what she felt, her modesty unblemished because she loved him so deeply. He had not been so delighted in before, treasured even, by his wife or his mistress, by any of the belles who had coquetted in the Maryland moonlight or the Parisian salons. He felt the strength and energy he’d had at twenty, the brilliant exhilaration of thirty, the appreciative savor of his years and wanted to pick her up, twirl her around, carry her to the horsehair sofa and raise that embroidered hem, run his hands up her stockings and untie her garters. He held her tightly in his arms to control himself, finding the shape of her hips within her skirts, the ripe curve of her bottom and she did not cry out in surprise but only pressed herself closer to him, shifting that she might cup his bearded cheek, slide her hand beneath his coat as if she told him she wanted her hand beneath the fawn vest, the linen shirt, running through the curls on his chest and a brand against his heart.

“God, Mary, when you touch me! You’re so lovely, I love you, oh, I shall never let you go, I want--” he said against her throat, hearing her breath quicken and feeling the restless movement of her hips against his own. She would let him take her now, they could possess each other in this twilit parlor, but that was not how it should be. He wanted her unfathomably much but he wanted her memory of their love-making to be the most beautiful, without any possibility of regret.

“Anything, Jedediah, you may have it, don’t you know?” she said. “All those months apart, distance and law dividing us, all gone, only you and I together,” she added and it woke him as nothing else had, enough to step back a little, to regard her with her unfastened collar and her flushed cheeks, her rosy mouth red from his kisses, the woman he would marry.

“Then I’ll have your hand-- even if we must wait a little longer,” he said. It would be weeks to make the arrangements, the license first, and then a ceremony she was satisfied with, a house they might lease. She would have a home, not the only one they would share, but the first and it should not be only his room, crowded and in disarray. She could not be the Head Nurse and Mrs. Foster and she should not be hidden away to wait for him when she might have a home to make for them both, room enough for her own endeavors, to receive the callers she chose, something suitable for her. He knew something of what she required to be happy and he would make sure she had it and whatever else he discovered brought her sunny smile, her low chuckle, that made her clap her hands or beam appreciatively.

“I must make a confession,” Mary said, lowering her lashes demurely, dimples appearing in her cheeks.

“A confession? You remember I am not a priest? I think I’ve made that eminently clear, today of all days,” he said, raising an eyebrow and casting a glance at where his hands remained intimately clasped at her waist.

“Still, I’ll tell you and hope you are not too…disturbed by my actions,” she went on. He would worry except that it was Mary and he had seen her suffering and distressed; there was none of that in her expression, only a little apprehension she seemed prepared to brazen through. He nodded to suggest she continue.

“I stopped in Washington City on my way here and I paid a call to an old acquaintance…Dr. Summers and—your letters, Jed, I felt sure you intended me to expect we would wed. I was correct, wasn’t I?” she said, interrupting herself with the last doubt she should ever have. 

“Yes. I’ll ask you every day if you need me to. To marry me,” he said with all the conviction he was capable of.

“Well, then. I asked Dr. Summers a favor or rather, I struck a bargain…on our mutual behalf,” she explained and he made a sound of interest so she would keep talking, enjoying this calmer cheer as much as their earlier ardent absorption. “I promised he might be the first guest in our home here and I would serve him the _spanferkel_ he wanted so very much, with all the trimmings, if he would provide me with a special license. So, we shan’t need to wait as long as you might think—unless you want,” she said, her eyes bright as if she thought she had been very clever and very impertinent. What must Summers have made of her? Jed imagined the old man laughing heartily at the woman he’d grown fond of, the prospect of the groaning table and a chance to return to Alexandria and not any of the work, adulation without any responsibility, making the round of his former fellows and then being feted in a gracious home. She had tuned to her offer to the man’s predilections most precisely, resolving the last great barrier to their union and it seemed she was in as great a hurry to change her name as he was to change it. The ceremony, led by Henry Hopkins, could be simple and soon and a reasonable house would not terribly hard to arrange once they were married if Mary was in charge of finding it with his pocketbook to help her. Jed could not resist teasing her from his excess of glee.

“Can you even make _spanferkel_? For all we asked, you never said,” he inquired skeptically.

“I feel sure I did. And that you didn’t listen,” she replied, brushing back the hair from his forehead. “And I most certainly can—though I don’t care for it particularly, so rich. I suppose if it is a favorite of yours…”

“I’d be satisfied with bread and water if you served it, Mary,” he said and she laughed, merry and knowing, beloved.

“No, you wouldn’t but I love you for saying it. And fortunately, you needn’t be,” she said. “There is so much more for us. Perhaps we might sit for a spell and talk? I find I’m a little tired.” He was not, not anymore, but he led her to the sofa and listened to what she said and how the evening fell around them like the lilac petals on her dress. The door was locked against interruption and when they ventured out, only greater joy awaited them.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a response to a prompt for a passionate reunion between Jed and Mary. I have a companion story in mind which may or may not see the light. The title is from George Herbert's "The Pearl." George Herbert (3 April 1593 – 1 March 1633) was a Welsh-born poet, orator and Anglican priest. Herbert's poetry is associated with the writings of the metaphysical poets, and he is recognised as "one of the foremost British devotional lyricists.
> 
> If you'd like to see Mary's dress, here it is: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/298363544033458961/


End file.
